


Unraveled

by gebieterin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Gen, Trollstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gebieterin/pseuds/gebieterin
Summary: A gift to baffle your kismesis
Relationships: Rose Lalonde/Dave Strider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Unraveled

When news of your deployment reach your quadrants, of course it is Rhozea who first insists on a little farewell gathering. You do not rush to her when summoned. You take your sweet time. You are late on purpose, of course. After all, it just wouldn't do to indulge your kismesis too much. Or maybe making her wait, fuming silently, is actually indulging her? You don't know, and neither do you care much.

You only very narrowly avoid getting a thin dagger buried between your thoracic struts, whether actually for being late or for presuming you could surprise her and hug her from behind, you don't know. And neither do you care much. What you care about is whether or not she used any of her poisons on the dagger, because while not actually stabbing you, she still drew blood from a mere scratch that should not burn the way it does.

Tutting at you, she playfully gathers some of your greenish teal from her blade with an elegant finger. All the while not letting go of the wrist she got into an iron hold in your brief not-quite-squabble. You know better than to struggle in earnest, but then you should also have known better than to go for a kismessitude with anything purple, much less anything purple and painted. Some would take it as proof of your exaggerated opinion of yourself, but you enjoy the thin edge of danger, just right there between exhiliration and fear every encounter with her holds. She honors your acquiescence with a brief approving nod. However, that particular smile of hers never bode well for you.

„And here I made you a little farewell gift. You are being ungrateful, Daffyd.“

She uncaptchalogues a small bundle, casually wiping your own blood over and between its folds.

You incline your head more to hide a fond smile than out of real ruefullness. Your smile freezes just a fraction when you note that the bundle has soaked up every speck of blood and sits there inoccuously, clean as day.

Rhozea smiles at you, revealing needle-sharp canines.

„...why?“ You are nothing if not wary.

She just rolls her eyes and folds open the little bundle, revealing a small doll. As it is knitted, a little doll she made herself. It appears eerily close to your appearance for all it is small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, therefore its features nothing more than some colourful stitches on the small grey plane of its face. She stitched your sign meticulously on a stylized clockwork design on the little figure's finely knitted shirt. You are confused as to why she would make a little toy for you rather than another scarf or anything useful for a change, like gloves. Diverted enough that her needle-thin and sharp dagger pierces into your finger with what feels like only a brief tap before you realize blood welling up. You make a face, but still do not even think to really struggle.

With a fond smile, Rhozea lets the little doll playfully pretend-walk over her lap righ to your captured hand, where she makes it lap up the droplet of blood she drew. Quite literally. Clowns, man. You expect to find the little manikin soiled, but you are not really surprised to see it clean as before. Intrigued, maybe, but not surprised.

„So what, now you bound my soul into the little bugger to keep me for yourself instead of seeing me deployed?“

You wanted to keep your tone playful, but you both know how probable it is for you to return unharmed. Or return at all. She inclines her head with a slow blink.

„Maybe so.“

Rising, she presses the little doll against your chest and you automatically catch hold of it when she lets go.

„Give it some blood now and then, and think of me.“

You want to do more than think of her, at least for now, at least today. Your moirail can patch you up tomorrow before you'll be shipped out the day after. It'll give him something to bitch about. Win/win, really.

It quickly becomes a habit, a little ritual for good luck, you nicking your finger just slightly to press some drops of blood to the little juju before every fight, stuffing the little manikin safely into the breast pocket of your uniform. While at first your comrades in arms gave you shit for it, their sneers quickly turned baffled when you are always among the few who make it through most battles without grievous injury.

Most battles, because while you are a good fighter, you are neither infallible nor immortal. There is always a sword faster than yours, you were just lucky enough that it took you so long to find it. Took it so long to find you?

It does not hurt much, actually, more like a weak blow low to your chest. While you want to laugh about the weak hit, you realize that your swordhand will no longer raise. You realize that you have been stabbed only when your knees give out under you and the world gets dark.

It has become a habit, you patting at the soft little toy soldier in your breast pocket when you wake up in an unfamiliar place. However, today the little lump feels oddly out of shape. Might have to do with the fact that your clothes have been sliced open to give the field medictactors access to sew your chest back shut. Your questing hand is batted away with a snarl, and you dimly think you hear them wondering why you are even still moving at all. Still breathing at all. It is only much later that you come to enough to remember to check for your little talisman. You briefly amuse yourself with the idea that it might have grown, given the amount of blood it must have soaked up. You chuckle, getting a bit nostalgic when you realize that you are actually glad the sword went through your chest well under the pocket you stored your kismesis' farewell gift in.

You are baffled, looking at the tangled, blood-matted mass of sad snarled string and stuffing. As the stitches have unraveled away from a fierce slash through its middle, there is still enough left of the the little doll's face for you to see it wink before it falls apart completely.

You get deployed ship-bound, to the same ship your moirail serves on, the very next day.


End file.
